


A you or a me

by tjesje



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, commission, ichigo has a crush and gets poor advice. or IS it, yeah it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 23:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjesje/pseuds/tjesje
Summary: "Ugh, you're in love?" Renji wails at him. "You're, like, a toddler! Ugh.""You should get him a gift," Byakuya suggests. "Not that I'm in the business of free advice.""Whatever," Ichigo mutters, only briefly annoyed he can't think of anything better. Byakuya and Renji wear matching rings these days and figured all their shit out so God knows there's no reason at all in the universe Ichigo shouldn't be able to.





	A you or a me

**Author's Note:**

> commission for @tinathecrow1 on twitter! if you want to check me out, you can find me at @ttjesje!

"Ugh, you're in _ love?" _ Renji wails at him. "You're, like, a _ toddler! _ Ugh." 

"Alright, grandpa," Ichigo mutters, just as Byakuya shoves against Renji delicately and unsubtly until he moves his knees enough he can fit himself in next to Renji like a piece of a mismatched yet somehow fitting jigsaw puzzle. Ichigo takes a sip off his rapidly cooling tea and shuffles around on the sofa. 

"You should get him a gift," Byakuya suggests. "Not that I'm in the business of free advice." 

"Whatever," Ichigo mutters, only briefly annoyed he can't think of anything better. Byakuya and Renji wear matching rings these days and figured all their shit out so God knows there's no reason at all in the universe Ichigo shouldn't be able to. “Maybe I should pine after him for years and give him a kimono and say it’s too big for me even though I get all my clothes custom-fitted like a proper aristocrat.” 

“Nobody would ever do this,” Byakuya barks at him. “That’s not anything anyone does. How undignified.” 

Renji smirks into his mug, then straightens. “Dude, just tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could die,” Ichigo says immediately. “No, wait, rectification--” 

“Goodness, Kurosaki, _ five _syllables,” Byakuya mutters.

“_Adjustment, _he could die. That’d be balls.” 

“He’s not going to _ die,” _Renji hisses. “Jesus Christ, toddlers are so dramatic. What do you people do nowadays, playdates or whatever?” 

“Saved your city, like, a gazillion times,” Ichigo mumbles. “Killed people. Died. It’s whatever.”

“Just schedule a playdate or something. Coffee. Are you allowed caffeine? _ Lemonades.” _

“_Yeah, _ Renji,” Ichigo snaps. Byakuya snickers but Ichigo’s choosing to ignore it to keep his reality where Byakuya is fully joyless intact. “I’m going to invite him to _ lemonades. _Dickhead.” 

Renji proudly lifts his tea. “That’s what I just said, man! Told you I was good at this, babe.”

Byakuya hums, long and drawn out, into his own tea, then carefully crosses his legs at the ankles and pats Renji on the knee. “Stop slurping your tea, Kurosaki.” 

Ichigo doesn’t. 

On the scale of things, you know, as far as achievements go, Ichigo could be considered a hero, maybe. There are many other things he could be considered, like sixteen years old or loud-mouthed or flinching imperceptibly at certain noises, but sixteen mostly. Also, in love, maybe. 

A couple of weeks back he was sitting in class during that one bad storm outside, when huge branches were blowing across the schoolyard and leaves slapped at things as though determined to slice through. He was staring at Chad sitting diagonally across from him, closer to the front of the class, cheek leaning on the palm of his hand, desk hard under his elbow. 

His teacher droned on about, about, like, “he would not stay for me, and who can wonder?” and “I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder, and went with half my life about my ways,” and Ichigo felt like his chest was on fire and like he was going to be sick which was a pretty fine indicator. Some people might say he's a little young to know for sure about love and such, but what else’s that supposed to be, you know? Either way, he’s pretty fucked. 

"You're a dumbass," Rukia tells him confidently, and then, "do you think this blouse is too gaudy?" 

"Yes," Ichigo tells her without pausing. "It's butt ugly." 

She huffs and makes no move to get back behind the changing screen and try something else, so clearly, she's taking his stunted fashion advices with a grain of salt. "Look," she begins, sitting criss-cross applesauce in front of him, drawing a notebook towards her lap with the tips of her fingers. "Just tell him like this." 

She draws him an elaborate chart with electric pink hearts that feel like they're laughing at him. 

His frown is so deep it makes him squint. "I don't get any of this." 

"God save me from the ignorance of men," Rukia laments, opening a new notebook page. “Give him small tokens of affection, flowers, hand-crafted weapons. Make your intentions clear, ask him for a walk and drinks. Uh, lemonades?” She adds, frowning at her hastily pencil-drawn martini glasses. 

“No lemonades,” Ichigo interjects. 

“Suit yourself!” 

Sado’s eyes are dark and his hair is thick and has grown wavy and slightly longer, curling over his ears. Ichigo spends an awkwardly long time staring at it, and when Keigo shoves him and begins loudly wailing about forgetting his lunch, he’s so startled his cheeks are still bright red when Sado turns to look at them. 

Sado looks at his stunned, dumbstruck face and his first impulse is apparently to smile at Ichigo. A very small lift of the corners of his lips only Ichigo’d be able to identify just by virtue of having paid a lot of attention over the years. 

All of this is just, you know, as far as Ichigo is concerned, pretty inconvenient and embarrassing. At the same time though, feeling his lungs leap into his throat and his heart go where his lungs used to be, it’s pretty great too. He detaches Keigo from his side and moves to sit next to Sado. It’s maybe a more self-damaging move than rushing headfirst into Soul Society, internal turmoil wise, though only by a hair. Nevertheless, he picks some grass from in between the tiles they’re sitting on, frowns heavily, staring straight ahead of the both of them, mouth a line, and drapes it over the back of Sado’s hand.

Flowers, done. Whatever. 

“_Another _date, huh?” Ichigo calls. “So she didn’t mind the blouse, then?” 

Rukia throws something at him so poorly it hits a lampshade instead. “She thought it was _ lovely, _and we’re also not talking about me right now!” 

“Fine, didn’t want to anyway. Can’t Renji tell you if your dress pants look undignified?” 

“We’re _ talking _about if you asked him for lemonades yet.” Rukia steps out in a floral sundress. “And about whether you think this pattern is too flashy.” 

Ichigo glares at her. “It’s too flashy. It sucks.” 

Ichigo packs up his notebooks with military efficiency, putting them back in his bag like they’re Jenga blocks, puzzling in his pencil case around his lunch. He knows he’s slowing down on purpose, which is maybe pathetic. He’s past worrying about it. He looks like a douchebag, but he’s making peace with it. 

Getting up without paying attention puts him face to chest with Sado, who’s been standing by his desk for God knows how long. Ichigo hopes he got there towards the end, _ after _ Ichigo took his lunch box out of his bag and put it back three times. “Uh, hey Chad. What’s up?” 

Sado stares at his face just long enough Ichigo wonders if there’s something on it. He resists the urge to swipe at his mouth only through willpower and some dregs of self-respect. “Uh,” he says, right when Sado opens his mouth and says, “want to go home together?” 

Ichigo closes his mouth quick enough he slams his tongue in between his front teeth like a finger between the car door. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah.” 

“And maybe get ice-cream?” 

“Sure. Wait,” Ichigo says. “No, it’s October. Nobody’s selling ice-cream.” 

“Oh,” Sado mutters. “We don’t have to.” 

Ichigo shoulders his bag slightly closer to his neck and gets red down to his chest and up to his ears, like a loser. “It’s cool,” he says. “Maybe drinks or something. Lemonades.” 


End file.
